


The Long Game

by Magentasouth



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Labyrinth (1986)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi, Past Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-12
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-09-17 02:38:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 20,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9300383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magentasouth/pseuds/Magentasouth
Summary: Green eyes blinked.  The small mouth twitched slightly before smiling wonderingly.  “But I’m just boy…”Jareth smiled before reaching out and grasping the boy under the arms and picking him up as he stood.  “Not anymore.”[This is a multiple universe cross-over story merging 3-7 distinct universes. At this stage only the Harry Potter and Labyrinth universes are seen. I will update warnings and fandoms as the plot develops in order to avoid spoilers. ]





	1. Chapter one - the hidden truth

Goblins didn’t mate.

That was the bottom line. The odd little fact of life that was so integral, and yet so strenuously guarded. Goblins didn’t mate. They didn’t birth tiny squalling wrinkled little goblins. They didn’t lay eggs. They didn’t reproduce asexually by cellular division. They didn’t mass produce themselves in some kind of vast underground goblin factory – although the last was not…entirely…remotely removed from the truth of the matter. 

In a certain sense – a very particular sense, that the wizarding world would be wont to lean toward, if they ever realised it – Goblins were more akin to werewolves and vampires than centaurs, fae or dragons. One was not born a goblin. One became one. Unlike vampires and werewolves however, there was a very narrow time period during which a human being could contract the condition, as it were, and a rather more peculiar set of circumstances that had to occur. That time period was exclusively between the ages of birth and five years of age. The peculiar circumstance, was that one had to have been stolen. The realm where the fae, high elves and goblins principally dwelled would work its own strange magic upon any human that entered. All that was required to become a Goblin was to live among the Goblins, eat goblin fare and drink goblin mead. The process was also substantially quickened by proximity to the goblin king or queen. 

One might theorize it to be an adaption of the hereditary magic of the royal line, to enable them to replenish the population more quickly in times of war (and there had certainly been a lot of war in the history of the goblin race.) One might theorize it, except of course for the obvious fact that there could be no hereditary magic at all for goblins. No families. No royal line - no bloodlines at all, in fact. Still, it was an objectively measurable phenomenon that human children embraced the change more quickly, the closer they were to the seat of the crown. Resultantly, a large percentage of the goblin peoples dwelt in or around the royal castle, and their labour supplied most of the kingdom’s needs.  
A smaller number of goblins dwelt on the borders between the old-magic realm and the human realm, entrusted with the sacred duty of ensuring the future of their people. They were seasoned goblins in their prime; Bright and cunning, handpicked by the king to live no further than a shadow from the humans, watching, listening, and when the opportunity presented itself, stealing. They were restricted to stealing only muggle children. It was a matter of serious import, and one that the goblins were careful to abide by. Many tens of thousands of their people had died in the last Goblin war with the wizarding world. Not that the goblins were afraid of death - they were not; they revelled in battle! But…over the aeons, the world had changed. War was once fought for profit. Now, the balance sheets showed that peace was far more profitable than conflict. Any new war with the Wizards was to be assiduously avoided. War was bad for business.

The highest position a goblin might aspire to, in the current age, was the one that Heldak now occupied, as the head goblin of the London branch of Gringotts bank. He had an old tin nameplate at his nondescript desk on the main floor of the bank, and his suit was quite reasonably priced, but he held half of Europe’s finances in his hand. He had the entire British wizarding world’s future on a tidily handwritten balance book.   
and right now, he was worried.  
He was busily (and very surreptitiously) calculating exactly what the financial fallout might be, if the wizarding world was, against all expectation, to declare war on the goblins within say…the next seven years. The numbers were not looking very attractive.

The reason for this unusual line of enquiry on what was otherwise a very busy Wednesday morning, was the small envelope with the broken blood red seal on it and a single page of parchment contained within, that lay on the desk next to him.  
It read : “Due to higher than usual levels of incompetence, the pact has been broken. There is currently a wizarding child within the castle walls.   
It is quite a sweet child, and unusually magically gifted. I am inclined to keep it. I want to know what is likely to happen if I do.  
The child appears to be around 3 years old. Its name is not known, but it was stolen from a family at 4 Privet Drive in Surrey, who are apparently called Dursley. It is a thin dark haired child with large green eyes and a scar on its forehead.   
I expect your response by no later than sundown. The change may be irreversible if the child is not returned by midnight.”  
It was not signed. It did not need to be. The royal seal, and the ancient enchantments protecting this particular missive would have been indicative enough, even if Heldak were not long familiar with the King’s particular style of graceful calligraphy. He suspected he could have recognised the origin of the letter in a dark room by the heady scent of the magic alone.

And now he had a problem. Or, at least, he suspected he had a problem. There were likely many wizarding children with a scar of some kind. Even more perhaps, when it came to muggleborn children. And, while the issue of a stolen wizarding child might be difficult if discovered – the goblins had many means at their disposal to reduce the chances of such a discovery. However, …there was one very well-known wizarding child with a scar. That scar was a matter of public renown, even if the child itself, one Harry Potter, had not been seen in several years; not since the last conflict with the Dark Lord Voldemort, in fact. And though it was an issue of secrecy, Heldak did happen to know that the Potter’s accounts had had, throughout those intervening years, a regular repeating monthly transfer in place to a muggle bank account located in Surrey and listed under the name of V. Dursley.

While it may…may… have been possible to hide the theft of a single wizarding child, Harry Potter was no ordinary child. There was no doubt that this child was likely to have been the most heavily monitored and protected child within Britain, if not even further afield. It was frankly astounding that any goblin had been able to steal him away. The confluence of circumstances must have been quite extraordinary. Harry Potter was important to the wizarding world due to his involvement in the disappearance of Lord Voldemort. As the Dark Lord’s vaults were still showing as active on the books, it was not possible for him to have been killed, as much of the wizarding world seemed to believe he had been. And because the Dark Lord still lived, when Harry Potter was supposed to have killed him, it was probable that the boy would be vigorously sought by those on both sides of the conflict. And if it were to be discovered that he was being held by the goblins… well… Quite beyond the issues associated with the child itself, the wizarding world had, over the last thousand years, through great effort by the goblins themselves, “lost track of” most written accounts regarding the goblin race. It would be extremely troubling if the manner of reproduction of the goblin race were to once again become a matter of general knowledge.   
The logical course of action would naturally be to return the child, hide the evidence that he had ever been touched by the world of old-magic, and forget the entire incident happened. The problem was that the Goblin King was a frustratingly wilful and capricious being. Once he had determined to do something, there was little logic or reason that could persuade him to change his course. Based on Heldak’s experience with Jareth over the past 900 years, he had probably already named the creature.

Heldak cursed under his breath as he read off the red number under the bottom line of the accounts table before him. It was a very long number. He drew a little sigil with a flourish, to extrapolate the figures across the rest of the Gringots banks. This utilised a painfully complex arithmantic equation that forecast the effect of British financial events on the markets of other countries.   
The red number grew until it ran off the side of the parchment. He poked it impatiently and the figures obediently shifted and reorganised themselves to take up four full lines in the column.  
Swallowing, he extended the equation to cover the next fifty years. There was a little high pitched squealing sound and the book burst into flames.  
Well. That was a clear enough answer, he supposed. The financial repercussions were too great to be calculated.  
With an extremely long suffering sigh, he pulled out a piece of parchment and began setting out his response to the king. He had no illusions that his advice would be accepted, but he could no more than try.


	2. Chapter 2 - Boy no more

A long way away from the dim formal halls of Gringotts bank, in a large open throne room, the Goblin king Jareth sprawled carelessly in his throne, observing the tiny creature perched awkwardly on the arm, which was, in turn, watching him warily. The room was bathed in a soft ochre light, the air sweet and scented with ripening goblin fruit. There was, as always, a delicate dreamlike quality to this place. He could tell that the tiny human was not sure whether this was really happening or whether he might lay slumbering sweetly in his warm bed. 

The Goblin king was an imposing being, for all that he, curiously enough, did not even faintly resemble a goblin. The goblins were small, squat, leathery, rounded, and generally a variation of brown in their younger years. They eventually matured into paler, pointier, more sour-faced and wizened, slightly taller creatures, after they had passed their first three hundred years. Not even a blind man could mistake a goblin for a human if they retained the power of touch. However, the goblin king himself could have easily passed for an attractive, if unusually tall, human male with odd dress sense, were it not for the pointed ears, slightly elongated catlike eyes and the barely noticeable pointiness to his eye teeth when he smiled.

The large room would normally, at this time, be crowded with small laughing and brawling figures – the younger goblins, which he tended to find littering every surface in the palace at all hours. Surprising even himself, he had ordered the guards for the first time ever to remove them today. Today, he found himself actually interested in something that the catchers brought back. This child was different to the others. He wanted less noise and distraction, so that he could examine it more closely – try to pinpoint exactly what was so captivating about it. It was a child. They were all…much of a muchness. Tiny squirming disproportionate bodies, chubby, foolish, emotional. Really there was very little difference between them and the goblins they became. 

This child however, looked at him with different eyes. There was an awareness there, an intelligent cautiousness, that he had not seen before. It was unusual, too, that it did not have a name. A child of this age – talking, walking, it would be normal for it to have grinned at him and started babbling away, or crying in some cases, but it would almost always give its name when asked, occasionally doing so between blaring sobs and pleas for its mother.

This child – this thin, far too old, child –did neither of those things. It watched him with interest. When he had asked its name it said it was just boy, seeming confused at further questions on the topic. It had worn a ragged pair of pajamas, several sizes too large. That, in and of itself, was nothing surprising. Many of the children that were brought arrived in rags, and some in nothing at all. Unwanted children were always easier to steal. Neither too, where the marks visible on the child, indicating it was not a beloved creature to its family, unusual for the infants and children he received here. What was slightly less ordinary was the way the child began to remove its rags immediately when he picked it up and sat it on his lap. That had only occurred once or twice in his many hundreds of years. Sad, broken little creatures in every prior case. This child just watched him. Wary. Knowing green eyes fixed on him. He had stopped its hands and moved it to sit on the arm of the throne. 

He tilted his head, watching it. He could taste the magic flowing off the small figure. Far too much magic for one so young. Fluctuating wildly now, betraying the calm visage the child presented.  
“Do you want to return home?” he asked softly. The green eyes widened and the boy shook his head slightly. Jareth was surprised to find something within him relax slightly. He should return the child. It was far too risky to keep it here. And hearing the child also wanting to be returned, would have argued more strongly for taking the responsible course of action.  
He was quite weary of taking the responsible course of action. A thousand years. A thousand years he had been overseeing the goblins as their king. Alone. Well… alone, apart from the goblins themselves, naturally.  
His punishment. And theirs. Though they would never know it. 

At the end of the last goblin war, what remained of the other magical races had come together for the first time in recorded history, to agree a long term solution to the problem that the goblins …and their offspring… presented. A pact. To prevent the horror from ever recurring. Things had been…different…back then. The goblins were stronger magical beings than they were in this age, they were irresolutely warlike, spreading like rats in every direction – a plague on all of the magical nations. Very difficult to kill, and possessed of no innate fear of pain or death. They were threatening the continued existence of the magical races. The wizarding world had near collapsed, the high elves too were on the brink of extinction. Even the vampires, centaurs and werewolves were struggling for survival and scattered, though their races had less of an affinity to become goblins, even in their infancy. 

Only the fae had been protected. They had withdrawn themselves behind strong wards and remained aloof from the carnage. Most of the other races had suspected them of being behind the goblin spread for that reason. Arguably, it would not have been the first time that the fae sought to reclaim the world that had once been their own. But in this case, they had not (that Jareth was aware) had anything directly to do with the rise of goblin nation. …It had simply not been politically comfortable for them to seek to repress the goblins, since their child abductions were a perfect foil for the fae’s own frequent child abductions. Whereas goblins had no other way to reproduce, the fae did still have the capacity to bear young. But it was a traditional practice, much celebrated, particularly in the more remote settlements. There was no appetite within the royal line to unsettle the population unnecessarily. So they sat back, safe in their domain, and watched as the other races were slaughtered and assimilated.  
And the responsibility for this was borne by Jareth himself. 

He had been younger then, obviously. Barely past his two hundredth year, he had only just taken up his seat on the royal council when the trouble began. Initially, it began slowly. A rise in the numbers of wizarding children vanishing, which could not be accounted for by the fae magical records. Then the problem emerged in the elves too – which was unusual, as fae hardly ever stole elven children. They were too clever to be lured away with music and dreams. When several fae children were found to be missing, the situation was immediately treated as serious. It took very little time for the council to identify the source.   
And at that point, if Jareth himself had not been so desperate to prove himself to his family and peers, the entire situation might have been avoided. The fae would have handled the problem when it was small. But he was, and it wasn’t. He had always had an unusually strong gift for the protective arts, warding, battle enchantment, and could easily see a way that the fae could ward their realm specifically against goblins. He spoke up and there was much attention and praise for this pacifistic and natural solution. The other races were far more warlike than the fae. They would be better suited to resolve the issue in the way they resolved every issue. With brute force. That type of thing was not in the fae’s nature.

And so, he himself warded his folk against the threat, and as the scourge rose, it fell only on the other magical races, leaving the fae to continue practicing their traditions and living their beautiful, peaceful, long lives. He soared on the admiration and love of his people. …But things worsened. The other races did not resolve the problem. It spread and the world itself seemed to darken. New creatures emerged. Larger than the goblins. Orcs. The product of goblin change on troll infants. Orcs were worse than goblins or trolls. They were intelligent like goblins, and virtually indestructible, like trolls. Worst of all, they could enact the change upon adult beings. It was all spiralling out of control. Still Jareth was able to strengthen his warding further to prevent the threat from entering their world. At that point, he was no longer seeking the admiration of his fellows, simply their protection. If the fae went to war now, they could be destroyed utterly.

When the tide finally turned within the council, there was very little left of the other races. The entire world lay in ash and ruins. The fae went to war.   
The cost was unspeakably high. So many of their people were killed. Thousands of years of their history wiped away in a matter of months.

So Jareth turned his eye to enchantment once again to weaken their foe. He created a binding spell. A very specific binding spell, based on the fae’s own ancient fealty oath of the royal line. He infused it into the very soil at the heart of the goblin empire. It infected the water…the plant life…the animals that fed there. He seized the goblins by stealth, forcing them to accept his rule, to battle their fellow uninfected goblins, destroy the orcs.   
In a matter of weeks, it was over. He had an army of goblins kneeling before him, spreading out to the farthest reaches of the horizon, completely under his control.  
And then he selected one thousand of the weakest specimens, and commanded the others to slaughter one another, and themselves, until nothing remained but carcases.

He was banished from the fae realm. His actions so abhorrent and shameful to his people’s principles that his name was forever struck from any record. He was cursed. On the last day that he ever saw his home, he stood before the fae council and representatives of every other magical race, and his own father cursed him to watch over the goblins as their king unto his dying day, as penance for the death and pain he had wrought. To keep them safe and prevent them from ever becoming a threat to the world once more. He made a pact to never again allow the goblin race to turn a magical child.

And a thousand years went by, day for day. Slowly, he set about hiding the truth of the goblin’s former and current nature from the other peoples. Protecting them from any future reprisal. He regulated their population, ensuring they were repopulated from only non-magical humans. This weakened them over time, but that was a favourable outcome, to Jareth’s thinking. He built a society, such that the goblins were able to form such a thing. It took a very long time for them to mature, to become more intelligent and reasoned. But he fostered their development. He steered them to build industry, mining, farming and finally the skilled artifices of smithing and metallurgy that were practiced by his own people. Goblins were industrious and cunning, and their steel and silver came to be known as the best and most desirable. With the great wealth that came in from these pursuits, he directed them to create a moneylending institution, and finally, the magnificent financial edifice that was Gringotts emerged and spread across the great cities of the world. 

He had brought the goblins to the first age of enlightenment for their people. And he was weary. And bored. And for once, he wished to do something that appealed to his own inclinations. 

This child…the first magical being he had encountered in so long… And it was such a small thing – look at it. Ragged, beaten, clearly used to liberties being taken with it that no righteous creature would stoop to. It would surely not be missed…

“Have you eaten, since you arrived?” he murmured, narrowing his eyes speculatively. “Have you been given anything to drink?” The small head with its mop of messy black hair shook slightly.

“Would you like to?” he asked. The hesitation was much longer before the little creature looked down and nodded, its hands again moving to pull up its pajama shirt. He stopped it again, gently.  
“No. You do not need to do that anymore. Here you may eat and drink as much as you wish. There will be no price for this.” 

He closed his eyes and reached out, pulling a sweet yellow apple from his own private stores to appear in his hand. He would have to ensure that the boy never consumed any goblin fare. A magical human was one thing, but a goblin spawned of a magical human quite another. If the boy changed, he would have to destroy him.

The boy’s large green eyes flew to him and he grasped the apple as if it might pop like a soap-bubble if he held it too hard. He looked stunned, eyebrows twitching between suspicion and hope. Swallowing hard he nodded. “Can I stay here?” he whispered.

Jareth smiled. His decision was made. “Yes. You may stay here. I think we shall call you…Gloth”

The small face wavered before settling on a frown.

“Not Gloth, then?” Jareth smirked. “Hmm… it is a fine name for a goblin. But perhaps you are not a goblin. A human name then?”  
Little eyebrows raised hopefully. 

“What about Elizabeth? I have heard of humans called Elizabeth. It is an esteemed name?” He struggled to maintain a serious mien, giving the prospect consideration.

The little figure gaped and seemed about to yell, before it jumped in realisation, panicking slightly and trying to calm itself at the prospect of angering him, curling its body protectively around the apple. He smiled slightly. The creature was quite damaged, but perhaps that would settle in time.

“No.. not Elizabeth. I have a better name for you. I shall call you Twyden”

He examined the effect this word had on the child. It seemed confused, if anything. It had likely never heard a word like that before.

It was unwise, he realised, to give the child a name in the fae tongue. But the boy looked like a Twyden. He could see him in a few years, dressed in a saresh, running through the woods laughing. The child would have been a tempting prospect to his people, had they ever encountered him. A strangely otherworldly creature. 

“It is a word in my own language. It describes the way moonlight dapples through leaves in the deep forest in the evening. There are many words that describe light falling through leaves, but Twyden is the word that is used when it is silent…still…magical.”

Green eyes blinked. The small mouth twitched slightly before smiling wonderingly. “But I’m just boy…”

Jareth smiled before reaching out and grasping the boy under the arms and picking him up as he stood. “Not anymore.”


	3. Chapter 3 - a bizarre confluence of circumstances

Alarms and bells and whistles going off. People running around like decapitated chickens while leaders bellowed orders. Panic in every direction. Muggle law enforcement conducting a countrywide search, and the Ministry of Magic sticking its oar in too. All of these things would be entirely reasonable outcomes should the notification come in that Harry Potter, the famous boy-who-lived, had disappeared from his home.

However, in the Headmasters office at Hogwarts, a number of bizarre little contraptions spun merrily and puffed their pink and blue smoke quite contentedly to themselves without the slightest hint of an alarm.

This was due to a bizarre confluence of circumstances. What it boiled down to in essence, was the critical absence of an accent mark in a very old book of enchantments, due to a broken quill and a forgetful old wizard, and a very marginal imperfection in the quality of the silver used for the devices, owing to a disorientated moth plunging into the vat just as the amateur silversmith had momentarily turned away to sneeze, before he cast the warding spells around the vat to protect it from airborne contaminants.   
It was a coincidence of lottery-level proportions, resulting in the appearance of full functionality if directed by the operator to check on the target’s status, but the utter inability to monitor the target independent of such direction. 

Of course this problem might have been picked up if Albus Dumbledore had checked on the status of his magical ward more than twice in the period since he had left him in a basket on the Dursley’s doorstep. However, he did not.

It is therefore quite understandable that on the night that Harry Potter was stolen by the Goblins, Professor Dumbledore ate a strawberry trifle while reading a book on the arts and crafts of the lost tribe of Wheeri, before taking a cup of earl grey to bed, along with his knitting set.

The next day he went down to breakfast and had a plate of bacon and eggs and some chocolate biscuits (a large handful of which he slipped into the pocket of his robes to take back to his office). He adroitly avoided a tedious conversation with Minerva about two students in her fourth year class who were not keeping up with the material, and managed to snag a copy of the Daily prophet from the Head’s table before Pomona could lay hand on it and put it back on the table out of order; heading back upstairs to read it before his meeting with the school board scheduled for 10am. 

There was not a resounding cry ten minutes later.

Nor was there an unpleasant scene during the school board meeting an hour later when the news of Harry Potter’s disappearance was revealed by someone in ‘the know’.  
Nothing at all happened. The Hogwarts school year proceeded quite uneventfully, to the relative satisfaction of all.

Harry Potter’s family never reported him missing at all. 

Oh they realised he was missing. He had been tossed bodily into the cupboard the previous night after his …conversation…with Vernon had finished. The door had been locked from the outside. In the morning, he was not inside, although the door had still been locked when Petunia opened it to call him out to help with breakfast. They were quite clear that the boy was inexplicably missing.

But what could they tell the authorities, if they did call?!

It had been the same wretched story as ever with the boy. This time he had had a book. He’d said he found it in the garden when Vernon had snatched it off him, but there was no way that a book like that would be tossed into a garden in their neighbourhood. It was a nasty book. Fables or fairy tales or some rot. Vernon had walked outside to find Dudley shouting something at him joyfully about goblins or ghoulies. Outside! In full view of the neighbours! He had snarled at his own boy to get inside before he grabbed the little freak and dragged him into the washhouse where he could close the doors and pull down the blinds   
…Afterward, he’d picked the boy up by the back of the shirt as if he were a suitcase and lobbed him into his cupboard under the stairs, in the vague direction of his ratty mattress. He’d bounced off the back wall a bit and landed half on the mattress, not moving. 

If they called the police to report him missing, they’d come round and ask questions.   
They might bring sniffer dogs or something of the sort.   
They might find the blood. 

And what if they found him, and he spun some fantastical tale of all of the things that they (or at least Vernon) had been doing to him?!

No… the boy was gone. Wherever he went, they were shot of him. If he came back…well…Vernon privately resolved to himself to invest in some form of tracking collar or chip. And possibly restraints. It was only a pity their house didn’t have a cellar…   
If the freak came back, perhaps they might consider moving.   
Obviously it would be a pity to leave their lovely neighbourhood, but they could move to another lovely normal neighbourhood. Dudley would adjust to a new school – he was a hardy boy like his father, and Petunia…well, did it really matter to her life in the slightest where they lived?! She could take care of a different house and shop in a different supermarket just as well.  
But the boy was probably dead in an alley, or somewhere on a boat to wherever children were sold to, so the problem had sorted itself.


	4. Chapter 4 - don't want to wake up

Jareth walked more slowly than usual through the corridors of the castle, to allow the tiny figure following slightly behind him to keep up. He could hear the soft pat pat of the child’s bare feet on the warm flagstones. It was tempting to pick him up and carry him again, but he ignored the thought and focussed on the room he wanted to create for the boy. It was peculiar, how different it was - the magic that the boy emanated. No different to any other of wizarding kind, Jareth supposed, but it had been an age since he had last felt any magic but his own and that of the goblins. The child’s magic was sweeter than that of the goblins, and rougher and more turbulent than his own. Fascinating, how it engaged with his own magic when he held the boy. But it was not wise to develop the habit. The boy was mistreated. He would interpret such physical attention as something other than Jareth intended.

Passing a row of tall thin windows with a pattern of triangular panes, they came to a blank stretch of wall, as the corridor turned ninety degrees to the right. This would be a suitable place to put Twyden, he considered. It was far from the areas occupied by the younger goblins, but not so close to his own rooms that the boy could easily find his way to him without guidance. Raising a hand to halt the boy behind him, he stepped close to the wall and gently brushed his fingertips down it, drawing them backward toward him when he felt the magic latch on as he intended. A wooden door promptly rose up out of the stone like a cork bobbing to the surface of water, settling back gently again as the wall solidified.

He smiled at the tiny gasp behind him.

Pushing down the ornate metalwork handle, he opened the door and half turned with a satisfied smile. “Come, Twyden. Let me show you your new room”   
The small figure shuffled into the room behind him, neck craning to look around. Jareth looked around the room himself with a judicious eye. It was as he had intended. Light coloured stone blocks with a large peaked window in the opposite wall, through which the late afternoon sun fell. There was no glass, but he had ensured the sill was high enough to prevent overcurious exploration. On the right wall there was a small carved wooden bed that wouldn’t overwhelm the child, covered in soft misty grey and ochre woollen coverings and pillows. An enormous fluffy round rug filled the centre of the room, with a simplistic pattern on it in brown and white. His lips quirked when he recognised it as the same pattern he viewed from his window every day - the labyrinth surrounding the castle. Ah how the mind returned to the familiar. The thing about the room that had the small creature so stunned though, was probably the overwhelming abundance of toys. They were strewn on the floor, perched in inset niches in the walls, hanging from the ceiling on mobiles. The room was a veritable feast for a child’s eyes.

“Do you like it?” he asked lightly. 

The child burst into tears.

Frowning and thrown entirely off balance at this reaction, Jareth turned and again scanned the room. Was there anything here that could be expected to provoke this reaction? No.. none of the toys were particularly frightening. The room itself quite ordinary. He looked back at the child, which had now dropped down to the floor and sat with its face buried against its knees, its arms curled tightly around them.

Cautiously he drew closer to the sniffing and whimpering little thing. It didn’t stir when he placed a hand gently on the back of its neck. 

“What is it? What is wrong?” he murmured softly. “Tell me and I shall make it disappear.”

There was a muffled sound that might have been the child trying to explain the reason for its misery. It just sounded like bleating sobs to him.

Carefully he maneuvered his arms around the small bundle, till he could lift it up again, ignoring the way it stiffened in his arms.

“Well, if you cannot tell me what is wrong, perhaps if you sleep for a while, you will feel better.”

The black mop shook slightly in a no. He ignored it and walked with the child over to the small bed. The covers folded themselves back accommodatingly at his approach. 

Gently he placed Twyden down onto the soft puffy mattress and unwound him carefully till he lay back. An absent gesture had the covers rolling themselves back up. He looked down at the wet little face, red eyes and sorrow-twisted features. “Whatever it is, it will be better when you wake”

This evoked a much stronger shake of the child’s head. “Noo!! I don’t want to wake up!! Please!! I want to stay here!”

Understanding dawned. Jareth’s eyes softened. “Child. You are not asleep. This is no dream. You asked to stay, and so you shall stay. I will hide you away from the humans who would hurt you…you will be safe here.”

He tried to speak as seriously as he could – put as much conviction into the words as possible, but he could see that the child did not believe it. Pausing, he thought for a moment. 

“If you are not truly here… then nothing I can say will stop you from returning to the place from whence you came. You agree?”

The child started to cry again, small face scrunching in misery. 

“Then, there is no reason to delay it. If it is a pretty dream, you cannot stay…” He reached out and stroked the small head gently, ignoring the way the creature twisted in the bed, desperately trying to crawl closer to him.

“But… if you sleep now… and you wake, and you find you are still in this room – you will see that you are truly free. And I shall give you crumpets and kalabas fruit for a meal.. and show you your new world.”

The gaspy breaths hitched. He looked down to find a small hand had crept out from beneath the blanket to grasp at his shirt where he perched on the edge of the very low bed. “Please don’t go!” the child whispered soggily. 

He sighed. There were other things he should be doing now. He should check the votive chamber, to see if Heldak had responded to his missive. And on a normal day, at this hour, he would generally take a walk in the orchard to replenish his magical signature in the soil. Then he would normally receive the new stolen children and dine with them, bathe, read for several hours and meditate before he slept. But time was rather relative here, he supposed. There was nothing he could not easily delay. Heldak’s response could wait. The child had not consumed any goblin fare. There was no risk of it turning.

“Then I will stay” he pronounced generously. 

Concentrating on the small bed, he allowed it to grow around them until it was large enough for them both. Gently unwinding the small hand from his clothing he moved himself to recline beside the boy, leaning back onto the soft pillows. It was a comfortable bed. His magic had done well. He felt the child shift until it was pressed against his side, the little fingers returning almost immediately to grip his shirt, as if to prevent him from slipping away unnoticed. 

“Do not fear, Twyden. When you wake, I will be here. You will see. And oh, the wonders I will show you.”

Silence.

After long minutes he glanced down, meeting wide green eyes. 

“But first, you must be brave and sleep”

The little brow furrowed but, after a moment, he watched the green eyes slowly close. He closed his own eyes, relaxing in the soft orange light. He would wait a while longer before slipping away. 

For some reason, he had the feeling that it was very important that Twyden learn that he could believe what his new …Owner? Master? King?…told him. This was a novel idea. His goblins did not need to trust him, they had only to obey him. Quite often he made a sport of being actively capricious toward them. But he had said he would be here when the boy woke, and he realised that he would actually make sure that he was. 

A little while longer and he would breathe a light enchantment over the child to ensure it slept until the morning. But for the moment it was quite pleasant to relax here, the boy’s magic tingling against his own, the pillows soft, the air warm and fragrant…he could almost slip into a light doze himself.


	5. Chapter 5 - the unsmellable snake

The forest was old.

In fact, old was too tame a word for this forest. This forest was ancient. Very nearly unchanged over thousands of years. The ice had swept over the proto-forest and had swept away again, leaving the soul of the forest undiminished; Growing older; Growing darker. This forest did not like humans - they often met with unpleasant accidents when they dared to venture into the leafy green depths. It barely tolerated animals for the efficient way they distributed its seeds, cleaned it, and fed it with their bones. Its trees were tall, overgrown with moss and vines. The light barely penetrated the thick canopy far overhead.

An adder insinuated its way through the mulch in the darkness of a valley, moving slowly in the chilly morning air down toward a small creek. 

The Adder was confused. It was thinking things that it had never thought before - Ideas that were too large for its mind to fully grasp. Large dirty mountains with two leggers in them. So many strangely shaped mountains. a world full of dirty mountains, all infested with two leggers. Moving rocks that were loud and smelled bad and were also full of two leggers. Two leggers everywhere! It didn’t like the thought. For the past two light-darks there had been another snake hissing to it to travel out of the forest to the two leggers that lived nearby, but there was no snake to be smelt or seen. It was not good to be hearing snakes that were not there. 

It slipped down the muddy bank and dropped its snout into the water, swallowing a few times, before turning and coiling in the mud. The light would come here soon from above and it would be warm.

The unsmellable snake hissed at it angrily again, threatening to bite it, and it twisted its head around, tongue flicking at the air rapidly, to see whether the other snake might not actually be there this time. But the forest around was still and no other snakes were near.

It did not sense anything of concern right up until the moment that a two legger hand reached down and grasped it firmly behind the head, lifting it up high above the forest floor. The adder whipped with its body, but it could not get out of the two leggers grip so it pulled its body up and coiled it around the two legger’s arm, to ease the weight on its neck.

Black slitted eyes focussed with difficulty on a two legger face that looked at it closely. This two legger smelled of nothing. Like the unsmellable snake. The adder wondered whether its smeller was hurt and not smelling right. What if the unsmellable snake had really been there the entire time?!

~ Greetings my small friend ~ the two legger hissed. The Adder was so shocked, it actually stopped flicking its tongue. ~ I am sorry to tell you, but you have a parasite eating away at you. I will remove it, but this may…pinch…just a little…~

The adder blinked. What was a parasite?! It understood eating. Something was eating it. Was the two legger going to eat it?! Normally it was not wise to tell prey you were going to eat it. It would flee.  
And then it stopped wondering because it felt the worst pain it had ever felt. It twisted and writhed again, biting at nothing  
…  
….when the pain stopped, it found itself coiled again on the bank of the creek. The light had come down on the bank now and it was warmer. Much better.

There was no unsmellable two legger in sight anywhere… and the unsmellable snake had stopped hissing too. Which was good, it supposed. Perhaps it went away with the two legger.

What an odd thing, it thought to itself, before it stopped thinking about it and turned its attention to the smell of a mouse on the other side of the creek. Breakfast had arrived. This would be a good light-dark.


	6. Chapter 8 - Not a dream

When boy woke, he panicked for a few seconds at finding himself, not only not in the tiny dark cupboard he was used to, but in a bed, in an open space, with a large body next to him. Biting his lips, he tried to look around out of the corner of his eye without moving at all. 

The room was really big. Bigger than any of the rooms he knew. It was bigger than the lounge! And there was this soft blue light. It wasn’t like the light from the streetlight outside, or the light from the telly. It was more like the moon. It was nice. 

He was in a bed. An actual bed! It was really soft and warm. It was nicer than anything he ever remembered lying in. the covers felt woolly against his cheek.

He turned his attention to the person in the bed with him then. Well.. they were really big... But not fat, like Vernon. He had his arm over them and they were wearing something that was really soft..and a bit slippery.  
Risking it, he tilted his head up a bit to see better and almost gasped.

It was the man from his dream! Was he still dreaming? Was he…was he not dreaming?! But that was impossible – the man couldn’t be real. Nobody he knew had long blonde hair. Well. Some women. But not men. And he looked…not really right.. like.. he was dressed a bit funny and his eyes were strange.. and he had done things that you couldn’t do. He had made a door in a wall…and he had made things move by pointing at them.

He really…really didn’t want to wake up in his cupboard.

As if just looking at him had woken him up, the man twitched a bit and started to open his eyes. Boy quickly put his head down and closed his eyes, pretending to be sleeping. He heard a rustle and thought the man might be looking at him.

Then a hand touched his head gently and stroked over his hair.

He tried not to move. Maybe the man wanted him to do the things. Vernon always wanted him to do things that hurt or that felt bad. But in his dream about the man, he had stopped him when he’d started to do the things for him. Maybe he didn’t want that. Maybe he wouldn’t have to do them anymore. But now the man was touching him. Vernon sometimes touched him like that, if he was in a very good mood. If he had to do it for the man too, it might be ok. He hadn’t hurt him yet and he gave him something to eat without even wanting him to do anything for it. It would still be better than Vernon.

The hand went away again after a moment and boy relaxed again slightly. 

“I know you are awake Twyden” a deep voice said softly, sounding amused. “I made this bed a little too comfortable, it seems. I fell asleep in it myself.”

Boy opened his eyes hesitantly, worried about what would happen now the man knew he was awake. He looked up, eyes searching the strange pretty face for some sign that the man was going to hurt him. The man was smiling. But not mean smiling like everyone normally did at him. This was more like the way petunia smiled at Dudley.

“As you see – you have slept, and woken, and you are still here.” The man gestured lightly with a slender fingered hand. Boy noticed that the nails on it were slightly pointed. But then he thought about what the man said and realised he was right. He was still here. Maybe…maybe this was real.  
The idea swam up in his mind that maybe….just maybe…he wouldn’t have to go back to his cupboard and the house with Vernon and Petunia and Dudley at all.  
Just thinking about it was exciting. Like that one time when he had broken a glass when no one was home and he had buried it in the garden – and no one had noticed it was missing! And he didn’t get hit at all!  
But much more than then, though. That was just one glass once, but this was like he’d broken his whole life and buried it in the garden.

“I can really live here?” he asked hopefully. 

“You can really live here.” The man agreed, nodding and smiling again.

He couldn’t stop himself from smiling so big that his face hurt. It felt like his face wasn’t big enough for the smile he wanted to smile.. He wriggled forward and hugged the side of the big man hard.  
A hand patted him lightly on the back but the man didn’t move apart from that, and it just made boy want to hug him more.

“Now…as it’s not morning yet, do you think you might sleep a little longer? I do have to go and settle a few matters, but I shall return and wake you in no time at all…”

The man was going to leave now? What if he didn’t come back at all?! Boy clenched his hands in the man’s clothes again, but didn’t quite dare to say no. You didn’t say no. no was a bad word. You just said yes. and I’m sorry. And thank you. He tried the second one hopefully.

“I’m sorry!!”

The man shifted on the bed, turning slightly toward him. It was a little scary, like Vernon. But then the man reached down and grabbed him under both arms and pulled him up and hugged him too. It wasn’t a hard hug like boy was giving him, it was just…nice. Warm. He felt the man chuckle lightly. “Ah Twyden. You are a funny little thing, aren’t you.” This was followed by a sigh, and the man let him go a bit. He scrabbled not to be let go, and buried his face against the man’s shirt.

“If you are so insistent, you may come with me. You will be very bored though. You would be much happier here sleeping a little longer and then waking up and playing with your toys.”

Boy shook his head insistently. The man was nicer than everyone everywhere. He didn’t want to lose sight of him in case the man somehow forgot all about him, or something bad might happen to him so he could never come back – maybe he might die! Or maybe Vernon or Petunia might come and tell him all about how horrible boy was and how he wasn’t worth spit, and he’d hate Boy and send him back with them.

“Very well. I shall have to see about having you some clothes made, but for the moment, this will keep you warm.”

The covers were moving by themselves!! Boy jolted and looked around wide-eyed as the soft grey woolly cover he liked so much started moving over his back and attacking him. He looked back to the man, scared, and then the man lifted him away from him by under his arms like before and he thought the covers were going to eat him. But then they just somehow didn’t and he saw he was wearing a grey woolly dress.  
He frowned at it. The man had tried to give him a girl’s name yesterday. Maybe he didn’t know he was a boy. But then.. he’d told him his name was Boy. So he must know. But…the man said his name wasn’t supposed to be boy anymore. He kept calling him Twyden. Maybe Twyden was a girl’s name.

The dress was nice and warm though. 

He considered telling the man again that he was a boy, but maybe he wouldn’t want him if he did. Maybe he only wanted him because he thought he was a girl. Maybe girls were worth more than spit. 

He reached his arms out, hoping the man would hug him again, and he did. And then everything shifted as the man got up off the bed. He was very tall. But now Boy had a view over all of the room, and he could see a bit outside the window. The street was completely gone. 

Seeing where he was looking, the man walked over to the window and looked out with him. 

There was no glass. Just a hole. And outside… there were… it was… Boy didn’t have anything to compare it with. It was lovely though. All misty and there were all of these walls.. and twisty hairy trees and fountains (he was proud of knowing that word) and other things he couldn’t name and it went on and on.. Much further than the end of the street back home. Far far away there were purple mountains with white on top. 

“Let me show you my votive chamber!” The man rumbled next to his ear. “It’s very shiny. Perhaps you may like it. And we shall see what Heldak has to say about you”

“Heldak?” Boy asked, confused. What was a heldak? They were walking out of the room already and into the corridor. It looked different at night. There were light blue diamond shapes all over the walls and floor that were very pretty.

“mm. He’s a Goblin. A very…very….old goblin. I wrote to ask him about you earlier. He will have replied while we were sleeping.”

He was sort of ok about what a goblin was. That was what the funny short animals were that brought him here. A man had told Dudley and him about goblins when they were in the garden. He walked by on the other side of the hedge when Dudley was being mean again, pushing him into the rose bush. The man didn’t seem to care. He just told Dudley that if he didn’t like his brother, he could always wish for the goblins to come and take him away. And then he gave Boy a book, and walked off! Dudley tried to take it off him straight away like he did with everything, and then Vernon came out while Dudley was yelling out happily about how he wished the goblins would take him away. And then Vernon got angry and…it was bad. And then he woke up and the goblins were carrying him away in the dark. But they didn’t hurt him. He didn’t think he minded goblins. 

“What does voted chamber mean?” was Boy’s next concern. But he was told that it was a room where people could send letters to the man and get letters back from him. That seemed ok.  
With no more worries left, Boy leaned more against the man and laid his head on his shoulder as the man carried him – a new experience that he decided he liked. The man smelled nice too. Like..something sweet. But not rose bushes. Or coffee. Or honey. Breathing it in, he closed his eyes and, with the gentle rocking motion, he drifted off a bit.


	7. Chapter 7 - the votive chamber

Jareth glanced down at the child that was asleep once again, curled against him as he walked. It brought a small smile to his face. He couldn’t quite explain why he had taken to the thing to this degree, but he had. He should go and put it back into bed. Although, it was no burden to carry it. the small creature weighed little. Even now, it was a pleasant frisson against his magic. 

He turned another corner, walked slowly down yet another corridor in this interminable palace. Sometimes he wondered how far it stretched. At times things were as near as a thought, he would turn and find himself where he wanted to be. Other times, it was a maze, defying gravity and logic. He sometimes caught a glimpse of himself, somewhere ahead, walking a different corridor, a different destination in mind.

He had often wondered where the castle had come from. He certainly hadn’t built it. It had been the seat of the goblins since long before he had come to rule them. It had not existed, and then it had always existed. The two memories created a mild sense of dissonance in his mind. 

Ahead he saw the narrow arch of stone that led to the room he thought of as the votive chamber. Votive because he would find gifts…offerings…whenever he entered it. Some he could identify were left by the goblins. Others just appeared. He had stopped wondering who left them. Or if it was truly him they left them for, or someone…something...else.   
Stepping across the portal, he gazed over the walls. Being inside the chamber was at once like being inside a hall of mirrors, and in some strange way, like being inside a prism with too many dimensions. Mirrors covered the walls in odd planes and angles. Each bore a silvery filigree shelf below it. On many of the shelves lay objects. Flowers, nuts and seeds, trinkets, idols, and other strange little items. From time to time he would select something and keep it, however most of the time he left the room and its odd collection to its own devices. 

One mirror - a small mirror, barely the size of his hand – now bore a scroll on its shelf; vellum, bound with a red ribbon. This was the mirror that led to the wizarding world. A mere pinhole, compared to some of the other silvery planes in this chamber. It had once led to a window in an old building in Diagon Alley. Discovering this long ago, he had ensured that the building was purchased by the Goblins for the location of their bank. Now, somewhere in the depths of Gringotts, there was a room in which a wall stood, alone, chipped green paint on the boards. a small dusty window in it forever unpolished. This was the room that was monitored at all hours for communication from the old world. 

He snatched the scroll in one hand impatiently, the other still supporting the sleeping child at his chest. Turning to leave, he spotted something else… something new. 

One of the larger mirrors had a new offering on its silvery tray. A piece of jewellery of some kind. He stepped closer and examined the trinket. It was a necklace… A watery green gem nestled in the silver embrace of a falcon’s claw. It was intricately finished, each scale on the claw discernible. Somehow unnaturally real. He reached for it automatically, but hesitated, his hand hovering only inches away. It was always a risk to take items from this room. There was no telling what they might be imbued with. The necklace was just slightly…too…attractive. It would be wiser to leave it where it lay.

Thus decided, he turned, leaving the room with his sleeping bundle and Hardak’s reply. 

He did not turn; did not think on the chamber any further. But if he had stayed and observed more closely; if he had not had the unusual child to contend with, throwing off the regular simple routine of his hours, he might…just possibly might… have noticed another change in the mysterious room. It was hardly obtrusive, therefore he might have missed it, but he was generally an unusually observant and curious being, therefore the slight off-note in the almost undetectable hum of the chamber might have drawn his attention. He might have traced it to a mirror, small and rarely associated with offerings and gifts, located low on the left side of the room. This mirror was always slightly darker than the others – nothing obvious, but the sheen of silver was a shade less clear. And now, there was a small crack arching up, hair-thin, from the lower edge of the glass.

But he was not concerned with the chamber right now. No. What occupied his thoughts, as he made his way through the lightening corridors, glimpsing the sun just beginning to creep over the horizon as he passed a long bank of windows, were the contents of the scroll in his hand. He was quite confident of what Heldak would tell him – that it was an enormous risk to keep the child, to knowingly break the pact with the magical races, and that he should send it back as soon as possible. He found himself walking automatically not to his throne room full of sleeping goblins, or to the child’s room to place it back in its bed, but to his own room, where a desk awaited his imperious response to his servant.

Twyden did not stir from sleep, even when he placed him down upon the furs on his own bed. He merely curled himself slightly, twisting and snuggling down among the thick grey pelts. Jareth looked down at him for a long moment. The shock of black hair was in need of a wash. The boy, dressed in blankets and barefoot, was so tiny, and blue bruises still stood out on its arms and neck. Such a small thing to ask, for over a thousand years of service, surely. A child to keep and train, to watch as it grew. Not a goblin child… a child more like himself.   
Shaking his head at his foolish thoughts, he slipped the red ribbon from the scroll and unfurled it briskly, scanning the contents.

My King,  
I am most honoured to receive your words and will offer any small wisdom that I am able, to assist you in resolution of this matter.

The child, if my suspicions are correct, would appear to be Harry Potter, born 31 July 1980. The child is a well-known figure within the Wizarding world, which complicates matters somewhat in regard to his theft, and indeed his unobtrusive return. 

You may recall that some years ago, the Wizarding world underwent a period of instability due to a popular uprising. This was, I am advised, due to a fundamental difference of opinion about the way that magical polarity should be regulated (or whether it should be regulated at all). The situation did not degrade to the point of civil war, however there were many attacks on wizards and muggles, the state of security within the British Isles began to be viewed as precarious, and the markets were impacted significantly, particularly in the 1978/79 financial year. In 1980, the leader of the uprising, a Wizard on our records as Tom Marvolo Riddle, but who is publicly known only as Lord Voldemort, personally led an attack upon the Potter family. During this attack, James Potter and Lilly Potter were killed, however their child, Harry Potter, survived with no injury, barring a scar upon his forehead. Little is known about the events of that night (31 October 1981), however Mr Riddle has neither been heard nor seen within the wizarding world since that date and there has been no movement in any of his accounts, although these are still registering as active. The chief Warlock of the Wizengamot – Albus…Dumbledore, shortly thereafter proclaimed to the Wizarding world that the infant, Harry Potter, had defeated Lord Voldemort, and the child’s name immediately attained celebrity status. More than this, he became in many ways a figure of legend and popular support. Witches and wizards across the British Isles still often make donations, and will their accounts and holdings to Harry Potter on their passing. 

It is a matter of some public speculation as to where the child has been since 31 October 1981. The Ministry of Magic released a statement last year advising that the child was living in a secure home where he might grow up with the privacy afforded all normal children. Despite this, some pointed enquiries were made in the branch only six months ago by representatives of the Ministry, so I can only conclude that they have had no information about the location of the boy and were unable to locate him by any other means available to them. 

The child has several accounts with the bank. Aside from those willed to him by members of the public, he inherited three family-line accounts on the passing of his parents. Albus Dumbledore, the aforementioned head of the Wizengamot, who is also the headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, is listed as the boy’s magical guardian, and currently holds a key to his accounts. I have audited Harry Potter’s accounts personally this morning and noted some irregularities over the past three years. Monthly-repeating payments of 800 Galleons (3983 Pounds) are wired to a V. Dursley, account at the RBC Royal Bank in Surrey. Additionally, monthly-repeating payments of 300 galleons are transferred to the Hogwarts school account within Gringotts, and 500 galleons to a further Gringotts account listed only as OP. The latter appears to have been created absent many of the standard forms and protocols in place to regulate our account management processes, and I am looking into this matter further. Albus Dumbledore is listed as the sole individual authorised to access funds in both of these accounts. There is no reference purpose listed for any of these three repeating transfers, all of which were arranged by Albus Dumbledore on 10 November 1981. To date, Harry Potter’s accounts have had withdrawals totalling 52,800 galleons.

I have performed some basic calculations regarding the likely repercussions, should the Wizarding world come to the knowledge of Harry Potter’s disappearance, his presence in the old world, and lastly, the reason for his disappearance. The results are extremely concerning. Whereas the financial impacts of public concern regarding the child’s unexplained disappearance are within acceptable tolerance ranges, should it ever become known where he currently resides, this is likely to inevitably lead to exposition of the reasons behind his abduction. In such a case, the financial fall-out would be beyond calculation. It would certainly bring down the Gringotts banking system in a matter of months, and may result not only in the subsequent collapse of the British wizarding economy, but that of wider Europe also. The impact would be felt in markets right across the global wizarding world, and within the more volatile muggle markets. Furthermore – from a strategic perspective, it would likely be necessary for all new-world based goblins to be immediately evacuated to the old world to commence defensive preparations against an attack by the other magical races. 

You are our beloved king and the goblin nation will follow you to any end, however I cannot but beg of you to return the child from whence it was stolen. We need only obscure all evidence of our dealings with it to evade this existential threat to our people! There are many other wizarding children that might be procured with less risk, or perhaps even openly negotiated for, if such a creature is required. Surely the blood of the goblins, our devotion to you and the great strides we have made in the world over the past thousand years are worth more than one child?

In fealty,

Heldak

 

Jareth blinked hard and rubbed his closed eyelids with finger and thumb, not only to relieve them from the tiny scratchy angular precision of the Chief Goblin’s handwriting, but also in a vain attempt to relieve his mind of the information he had just consumed.

How inconvenient. His new acquisition, quite aside from being possessed of a truly awful name, was rather more trouble than he had imagined. While self-restraint and moderation were not traits that fell within his nature, even he was hard pressed to ignore the concerns raised.

Frowning, he glanced down at the child again, still sleeping contentedly on his bed, nestled in thick grey fur. Twyden had a faintly happy twist to his face, so rare since he had first encountered the boy yesterday. He could imagine viscerally how the green eyes would fill with tears when he woke and found himself back in the dark place he had dwelt before. 

He moved to sit on the edge of the bed, unaccustomed in such a long time to this feeling… this clenching in his innards… at the thought of simply depositing the child back with the ones who decorated him in purple bruises and trained him so effectively to disrobe himself at the merest touch.   
Perhaps it was in the goblin nature to dispose of a threat quickly, without too many questions asked…but it was not the fae way. This was not right! The fae never released an innocent into suffering. His own father would never condone this, if he knew of it. Fleetingly the thought occurred to him that he could approach his father directly – send an envoy with a message advising him of the situation and requesting the assistance of the fae to protect the boy.

But…if Twyden were to be given sanctuary with the Fae, Jareth himself would never again be able to see him. He was banished from the realm forever, and the boy would hardly be permitted to return to visit. It wouldn’t be consistent with the spirit of his punishment to be allowed to see him.

But perhaps the idea itself was not useless. One of the other races might offer the boy protection. It should be a people of intellect, and relatively average human appearance, so that the boy might blend in. That excluded dragons, trolls, hobbits, leprechauns, dwarves, centaurs, harpies and low elves. They should reside in an environment that the boy could inhabit without too many difficulties, so the selkies and merpeople would be of no use. It would also be better if the race were relatively peaceful, or he might be placing the boy into an even worse situation. He mentally subtracted the werewolves, skinwalkers and shapeshifters, who were continually engaged in violent territorial and clan disputes. Who remained? Not the High Elves - they were a very aloof and removed people. They would not willingly take in a human, and they would certainly not be prepared to accept contact from him. They were not as long lived as the Fae, but they had a very extensive recorded history and the truth of the last goblin war was still known to them. He recalled that they had actually invented a word for him in their tongue, which they included in the elvish copy of the pact. It was almost a form of flattery to become an actual term of reference in the elvish tongue, except for the fact that the word meant something between fool and defiler. It was a word for a prideful person who ruined something by their lack of forethought. The High Elves would not be of help.

The vampires or veela perhaps? 

The vampires were reclusive, to a degree even more extreme than the High Elves. They were also as long lived as the Fae, so his own actions in the war were no doubt remembered clearly by those who had been there at the time. They were not…altruistic, on the whole. Unlike the Fae, who would act to protect innocence on principle, the vampires might, or might not act, but it would depend largely on what they saw as their benefit in the situation. If they were to provide assistance, it would in all likelihood be very costly assistance. Beyond this, it would also not be without risk. Twyden would constitute a tasty morsel to them, as children’s blood was always sweeter than that of adults, and magical children, substantially more so. The only delicacy more highly prized than the blood of wizarding children was the blood of the fae. Jareth dealt with the vampires only extremely rarely, and with the utmost caution for that very reason. Placing Twyden with them, would be tantamount to offering both of their throats. And while the vampires were more self-disciplined and enlightened than the werewolves, having a complex society and elegant hierarchical order, they were also more corrupt, perverse and vengeful. Twyden may well end up mistreated in a range of other ways among them. No. Not the vampires, then.

The veela would possibly be willing to help out of an altruistic desire to protect a child… and they did not live so very much longer than average wizards, therefore the truth of his infamy would no longer be known to them... All the same, this prospect did not sit well with him either. The veela were all blonde, all very similar in appearance, and their own standards of beauty were skewed in favour of that appearance. Placing Twyden with them, he may as well be placing a goblin in their midst, for how they would view the boy. Oh, he could change the boy’s appearance - make him a blonde haired, blue eyed doll. But eventually the illusion would have to fall – at the latest when the boy did not come into his wings with the other teenagers, and Twyden would then be distraught at finding himself to be something that he would by that point have come to view as ugliness and imperfection. Moreover, he would not be able to progress with the veela. Their magic was quite different to wizarding magic, and could not be learned, as Fae magic could. One either was a veela, or one was not - that was all there was to it.

He sighed, leaning down over his knees. It was not as simple a prospect as he had thought. And, he reluctantly admitted to himself, it was also altogether an undesirable prospect. He did not want to send the child off somewhere out of reach.

Glancing askew, he noticed that the little figure had wriggled closer to him and one hand was reaching out toward him, though Twyden appeared to still be sleeping.  
Could he protect him here? Could he keep the world from discovering him?  
He would think on the matter. For the moment the child would remain with him. If all else failed – he would petition his father rather than return it whence it came.


	8. Chapter 8 - a message from the King

Heldak shifted slightly in the straight backed chair he had had the guards bring into the room for him, before he’d commanded them to wait outside the room. 

There had been protest in both of the younger goblin’s eyes – this violated protocol. There must always be no fewer than two goblins in the room and one outside the door, but thankfully the younger fellows had not had the temerity to speak against the head of the bank. Heldak’s directive, in principle, overruled any protocol the bank might have – since he had been the one responsible for originally putting the protocols in place. Still, goblins treasured order and regularity and he might very well have been challenged. That would have caused no end of trouble. He was not prepared to place on record any of the information that had come into his possession from the old kingdom since he woke this morning. 

Right now, his body was reporting that a goblin of his advanced years should not be waiting on an uncomfortable chair for hours in the damp recesses of the bank, when there was a warm fire and a soft armchair in his chambers. He glared at the dirty window before him, silently commanding it to produce the king’s response. The time ticked by. He shifted in the chair again, attempting to relieve the ache in his bones. Finally, after only…seven hours, a glance at his pocket watch told him, a thin envelope extruded itself through the glass of the window and fell to land on a bed of lambs’ wool in the woven silver basket bellow.

Heldak pulled himself up, joints creaking and cracking in protest, and strode to the basket, retrieving the missive and secreting it in his pocket immediately. Minutes later he was in the silent confines of his own chamber, and dared to take out the envelope and break the seal.

The response was brief and to the point, and it was, for the most part, exactly as he had feared and expected, with one surprising revelation.

“Your concerns are noted. I have decided to keep the child. Point of interest - It has been severely maltreated within its muggle household. Collect any and all evidence of this as soon as practicable and ensure it is kept secure, for the event the child’s abduction should ever be traced to the Goblins.”

Frowning, Heldak lowered himself carefully into his chair and leaned back, hands gripping the arms with pale knuckles, on which the skin was like worn leather beginning to peel. Harry Potter – Maltreated?! A peculiar word for the Goblin King to choose, particularly as the man was, to Heldak’s own knowledge, quite devoid of mercy when it came to punishing incompetence within his ranks. However, if the word could be taken in the sense it was most often used by those not the Goblin King, then that did change the complexion of things somewhat. A faint, barely discernible twist of the corner of his thin lips betrayed that this would be a welcome development. If the wizarding world’s golden child were to have been in a position of peril, it may be possible to present the goblins, should the theft ever be discovered, as rescuers in the situation, seeing by chance the events and choosing to intervene on behalf of the innocent child. Of course, this was not at all the view that the wizarding world tended to have of goblins – and it was also not even remotely in the nature of goblins to behave in such a manner. Some within the wizarding world would know that.

Perhaps the theft could be pushed off onto another suspect? For the event that it could not, it would be best to prepare a full case on the Goblin’s arguments for taking and then not returning the child. He could only hope that the Goblin King was correct, and that the evidence of maltreatment would be obtainable. He would need to dispatch goblins to enter and observe events within the house on Privet Drive. Preferably few and highly trusted goblins, sworn to secrecy. At least one would need to be proficient in collection of physical evidence in line with MLE standards, with others able to observe it for the record. That would require some preparation – such rigor was not normally necessary. 

It may also be wise to obtain memories from the muggles. Those would need to be extracted by one of the senior regulatory investigators. Although ideally, it would be a goblin, for the sake of the evidence it may be prudent to use a wizard. The goblin memory extraction charm was merely adapted from the wizarding charm of the same and there were sometimes imprecise results. Involving a wizard was not at all something Heldak felt well about. Further thought would be needed on who might be loyal enough to trust with an issue of this magnitude, foolish enough to be roped into a dangerous and highly restrictive unbreakable vow, or expendable enough to suffer a mysterious and coincidentally well timed accident following their assistance.

He tugged absently on the black silken bell rope that hung down beside his chair, his hand already moving to slide the King’s letter back into his pocket. Tea. He would need tea. Enough tea to last through a very long night of planning and strategizing


	9. Chapter nine - less pleasant awakenings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews are nice.

Awareness returned.

Cold. Amorphous discomfort. So familiar. So long, and yet, it was still better than death.

But in this darkness… what had happened? It was difficult to focus…so difficult to remain…himself in the body of the snake. 

Although… with clarity, he suddenly realised that he was not having that difficulty at the present moment. A chilling fear washed through him. Was he… was this…

No. no, it couldn’t be death. He had taken thorough precautions. 

But this…stillness… the darkness. The unfamiliar presence of mind… 

How long had it been since he had last felt this?! Long before the wind and the snakes he had lost himself in what could only be described as a fog. a dreamlike distance from the events taking place around him. He had not realised it at the time, but from this vantage point… wherever this might be – it was distressingly clear.

How?! 

How had he miscalculated to such an extent?! How had he sacrificed his greatest strength – his mind – and not even noticed?! 

And what did it mean that his clarity had now returned? 

The dark ominous fear rose up again.

And then there was light.

Thankfully, nothing so damning as the fires of hell or even the fabled white light that was rumoured to appear to those who passed over.

No – this was a sudden unveiling. A sweeping away of a dark cover, revealing a green world and a dark figure. Slightly blurry and out of focus. It took a moment to work out what it was, that was causing the effect. And when he did realise, the fear returned once more with razor teeth.

It was glass. A curved glass surface. Glancing up or down had no effect. He had no body. And he was currently in a glass jar, about the size of a marmalade jar. There was even a curved rectangular area which, he extrapolated, was likely a label of some kind. Salazar. Was he in an actual jam jar?! 

He peered…with whatever senses he found himself with in this state – there were no tangible organs to process the information conveyed by light, obviously – but could not make out detail about the dark figure that had moved away and seemed to be doing something at a table or bench of some sort at the other end of the room.

The memory of the last thing that had occurred to him prior to …the jar…swam back into view. He had been looking out through the adder’s eyes at the light dappled stream, furious at the creature for insolently ignoring his commands, when a man had suddenly picked them up. A wizard, obviously, since he spoke parsel. That singular point grated at him – no one, bar he himself, spoke the noble tongue. It was a hereditary gift and he had undertaken his research on Salazar’s line quite thoroughly. He could conceive of no reasonable way that another descendent should emerge from nowhere in the intervening years only to chance upon the remote forest in Albania, and the particular snake that he inhabited. How should he have even recognised any irregularity with the snake? No – the only remotely feasible explanation was that the man had known that he, Lord Voldemort, was there in that specific location at that time. And the only ways he could conceive that one might have that information were that they were a seer or a time traveller.

The main point of concern for him at present was the fact that he was currently residing in a vessel that demonstrated a gross lack of respect. A servant would have housed him in an edifice of crystal or precious jewel. Particularly if they were a time traveller, with all the time in the world to plan and bring along a vessel suitable for transporting the soul of a Dark Lord. Therefore, it was possible that the man in whose captivity he presently found himself, was not an ally and had ‘acquired him’ for his own purposes. More unsettling still – he was evidently an extraordinarily capable wizard. Not even Lord Voldemort himself knew how a soul might be extracted from a possessed being without killing the host. He would have been quite interested in learning more about that, in fact, however at the time he had found himself distracted by the indescribable agony of the process.

He turned his attention outward once more, realising that the growing dark green shadow indicated that the wizard in question was approaching him.

“It seems you’ve awoken early” a soft cultured male voice observed with wry amusement. “I can practically hear your mind churning from across the room. Don’t excite yourself trying to foresee your fate – you know as well as I that there is no possible torture or punishment I might deliver upon you that you have not richly earned. As it happens, you are fortunate - I harbour no plans to harm you at present. In fact, I am about to be of great aid to you. I am building you a new body.”

The Dark Lord felt his very mind still in shock. 

A body. It must be a trick. There must be some advantage to the man in helping him. What did he think to do to him once he had him in the flesh?

Soft chuckling and an expression of genuine amusement passed over the man’s face. “You are quite right.” He observed. “There is a service I would have of you. But I think that the exchange will be more than fair.” Lord Voldemort felt himself chill further – the man could hear him. Nothing but a soul in a jam jar and this man could hear him. 

“I think we shall get on, as they say, like a house on fire. Eventually. When we meet again. Now – I am about to begin a rather precarious enchantment, and I can’t have you knocking at the glass and distracting me, however entertaining that might be. So, I think it would be best if you slept once more.”

Lord Voldemort did not even have a chance to protest before he had ceased to be aware of anything at all.


	10. Chapter ten - a loss was felt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my newest fic, and it has now reached the writing horizon. This means that in order for me to upload a new chapter, I have to write it first. For this reason, it may be updated less frequently than the other fics where there are dozens of chapters waiting.

“Celestina Warbeck is coming to the Grand Oak theatre in July, darling. Did you see?”

Lucius Malfoy, who had been, until this moment, enjoying a moment of peace and a new blend of tea at his desk in his study, ruffled his paper and raised it slightly higher. He had indeed seen. Three days prior he had read the announcement in the entertainment section of the Daily Prophet and had gone so far as to charm the entry with a notice-me-not. It appeared that his evasive action had not been quite extreme enough. He should probably have swept Cissy up on a surprise trip to somewhere beautiful, remote and decadently expensive. If he had, she may…. possibly….just possibly… have been distracted or merciful enough to ignore the upcoming event. 

But there was a sitting of the Wizengamot tomorrow to discuss a bill he was quite invested in, to do with changes to the regulation of importation of certain materials used mainly in wand construction. It looked like it could be quite a close thing, with half the members ignorant and ambivalent and several…unfortunately respected…and highly vocal advocates of the banning of blood, venom and bone seeking to persuade them. If he were to be absent and not able to speak up for any reason, seven more wandcores primarily suited to dark magic might slip out of reach. 

“I did” he responded neutrally. 

“And…” came the pointed question. “You have already procured the best seats, I hope?”

He held in the long-suffering sigh he wanted to expel. Celestina Warbeck sounded like a parakeet being strangled under a sound amplification charm, and the prospect of spending a night among the rabble, no doubt surrounded by Narcissa’s chosen crowd of gossiping hens, and their largely dull and overfed husbands was far from attractive

“I will need to review my calendar” he ground out, in hope that this would be enough to put his dear wife off, or at least procure a stay of execution.  
It was not to be, of course. Cissy was more driven than a niffler after gold when she had set something in her sights.

“It is two months away darling, and takes place at seven in the evening. Don’t be so silly. Whatever should happen to be planned can easily be rescheduled before then. I will send for the tailor to come by tomorrow morning and measure you for a new opera robe. The Gainesboro one you favour is unfortunately becoming a little worn, and absolutely everyone has already seen you in it.”

Lucius twitched. He liked that robe. This was a threat. He needed to stand firm.

“I really don’t think it is necessary to-“

“I have already had the elves dispose of it on Monday afternoon, so you will just have to endure the tailor” she informed him with a serene smile. “Don’t fret – I am sure you will come to appreciate your new robes equally well in time. Let me know the seat numbers as soon as you have them – I shall have to inform Melissande and Georgette so that they might arrange their own bookings.”

He felt the steam rise in him. She had disposed of them on Monday afternoon. A few short hours after he had hidden the listing in the paper. This was the reason why he adored Narcissa. She was formidable. She did not miss anything. It was also why he at times wished dearly to curse the life out of her.

There was no point in arguing further. He would be going to the thrice-damned concert. He would be gritting his teeth charmingly and making dull conversation with Georgette’s husband Elgar, or it would undoubtedly be his favourite dragonhide boots on the chopping block next.

He lowered the paper and folded it briskly. “With each passing year, your grace and wisdom increase, my dear” he returned blandly, knowing his wife detested to be reminded of her age. “I shall look into it directly and will have Pip inform you of the seats I select.

Narcissa was of course a beautiful woman. She knew it, and he was still not immune to it. Long silken blonde hair, so unlike the rest of the Black family. Usually, as this morning, she wore it in a French twist that he delighted in unbinding in the evening. She had a porcelain complexion and truly perfect figure, long legged, lean and full busted. And, of course, her large ice-blue eyes, which could shift from limpid pools to razor-sharp steel at a second’s notice. The latter variant were on display at present, although the rest of her face was still fixed in that light, airy, serene expression she most often wore. He managed to suppress the urge to retreat. Perhaps he should have conceded the point more fully.

“Excellent, darling. That will be lovely.” She turned and moved to leave his study. He breathed out in relief.

And then she paused and half turned. 

“Oh… another minor thing darling. I noticed that the heels were coming off those boots you picked up in Goettingen. Astounding to see them looking in such a state so quickly – you’ve only had them since November. It is truly unbelievable how the quality of crafting has declined. I have sent them to the cordwainer for repair, but he could not give me definite assurance that they can be mended. I shall know by next Wednesday.”

And then she breezed out with a gentle self-satisfied smile.

His teacup hit the hearth two seconds after the door had closed. 

Unbelievable! Not that the ‘quality of crafting had so sadly declined’ – what was unbelievable was that his dear wife would extort concert tickets out of him with the life of his favourite boots as a matter of course. The woman was mercenary!

He looked mournfully at the shattered pieces of the teacup. It was a petty thing to destroy it. The set had been specially made to Narcissa’s preferences by a little known and extremely exclusive potter living in Lisbon. He could reparo the cup but it would always be imperfect now. 

She would know. She always knew. He could swear she walked around the manor habitually finite’ing at random, just in case somewhere there might be an object or furnishing with hidden damage.

And of course, if one teacup was imperfect, the set was ruined. It had cost over 12,000 galleons.

He reparoed it anyway and tucked it away in his drawer, placing the newspaper over it. Possibly he might be able to commission a single cup and exchange it. 

And then he flooed his assistant Petra in the Ministry and had her book the concert tickets, specifying that they were to be the best seats in the theatre, irrespective the cost, and that if they had already sold, she was to raise the offer until the theatre reconsidered their previous booking and sold them to her. 

 

Out of sorts now, his day ruined, he decided that he might as well escape into reading for a while. At least he was likely to be left alone in the library. It was an unspoken agreement. Narcissa had her conservatory and garden, and he had his study and library. The most vital ingredient to a successful marriage, his father had once told him, was to be able to avoid one’s partner entirely. 

He strode out of the study into the library and breathed the scent in deeply, feeling himself unwind slightly, through long years of habit. The ancient parchment…the glossy polished wood and well-oiled dark blue leather soothed his senses. Not a single flower or ornament in sight.

Somehow it was less effective today. He found he still…itched…to curse something.

No. Not something. Someone. He wanted nothing more than to raise his wand and curse someone bloody. Curse them until they screamed and writhed. Until the light left their eyes.  
It didn’t even really matter who.  
All that mattered is that while he stood and let the rage and frustration and power flow out of him, he could know …peace… at least for a time.

For only a moment he allowed himself to think on the past years fondly. The Great Cause.  
The Dark Lord, his master.

He had thought… such power…such wonder could never be extinguished. When it had happened, and his master had vanished, he had waited with baited breath for his return. But it had been years now. His master had not returned. 

He refused to consider that the Dark Lord was dead. It was unthinkable.  
But still worse to think that he might have simply fled.

No – he had to believe that his Lord would return.

He had no contact with his brothers anymore. It had been a near thing at the time. Azkaban’s doors yawned wide before him. Only his quick political dancing and connections had saved him and his family from ruin.

And yet…

If the man were to walk through the door now…

It was some errant sense of drama that his father had not managed to curse out of him that had him turning toward the grand entry doors to the library now. But of course, they did not suddenly slam wide with a boom revealing a shadow in the dust. He simply felt foolish.

Allowing a very small sigh, he turned away from the main aisles of the library, needing something darker. Something warm to comfort himself with. Down the last of the reference aisles he reached the painting of the castle on the moor and cast the intricate charm to lower the wards around it. This particular vault had cost a fortune, not to mention the life of its creator. He had to cast no less than three further specially created charms before the panel of the wall swung open and admitted him into the most secure room in the manor. The dark magic actually spilled out through the doorway upon him like a warm tingling wave. 

He stepped in and closed the door behind him, moving quickly to the centre of the square room and closing his eyes, letting his head fall back and simply basking in it.

Not even Narcissa knew of this vault. His son – little Draco - who would be having his sixth birthday soon, was not even allowed into the family library, largely out of his paranoid fear that he might somehow wander too close and, however improbably, the warding around the vault might fail.

Dark magic was like any of life’s great pleasures, he felt. Exquisite in moderation, but highly addictive and particularly dangerous for developing minds.

He frowned.

Something was different though. The thick magic soaked air was…not quite as it should be. It was thinner…or less concentrated. Had the warding failed?!!

Opening his eyes, he was about to cast a diagnostic charm on the wards when he saw it.

A slim gap where there should be a book, on the left of the very top shelf.

He did not even need to approach to know exactly which book that was. He did even so, needing to verify it. Needing to be sure. 

His heart sank even as he saw the red leather of the Tenebras Nigrae, which he knew was positioned right next to The Book.

The Book which was inexplicably absent.

His master’s book. The only thing he ever gave him. Which he had commanded him to keep safe even on penalty of his own life and the end of his line.

Irrationally he searched around the room, as if the thing might have sprouted wings and flown from the shelf to perch in a dark corner. As he searched, he could feel the terror bubble up in him like blood from a wound. It was not here. How could it get out of the room?! The room that only HE knew of. That was keyed to entry only by him with lethal blood and magical signature wards.

For the first time in his life, he found himself praying that the dark lord was dead.

 

Unbeknownst to him, on the other side of London, in the house of his wife’s family line, a very old house elf was sitting in the shadows of a kitchen cupboard weeping and looking down at an empty box that should have held a gaudy golden amulet, traced in diamonds in the shape of a filigree S.

“Oh master Regulus! He moaned to himself soggily in a voice that sounded like he lived on a diet of cobwebs, mold and gravel. “Kreacher has failed you again! Whole house upside down and tis still being gone”


	11. Chapter 11

It was warm. So warm. Small fingers curled into coarse fur. And it smelled like the garden. Like leaves and dirt, and flowers. 

Boy opened his eyes cautiously and squeaked, darting back from the enormous orange eyes inches in front of his nose. A goblin. A BIG goblin. Breathing fast he looked around the room, panicked, but the pretty man was gone. 

He looked back at the goblin. He thought it might be a girl goblin, although it wasn’t in pink and it didn’t have any bows. It looked a bit like Mrs Kew from two houses down. Kind of wrinkly and old, with hairs on its chin and a big rounded nose. 

“Yer finally awake” the goblin observed 

Its voice sounded a bit like Mrs Kew too, Boy thought. Sort of no-nonsense. Like she had something she needed to do right now and no time to waste on talking.

“Well – up with you. It’s time for washing and eating. Move quick, child. If his Majesty gets back and takes his ire out on ole Mimsy, ye can be sure I’ll be giving you a lick of it too!”

Boy blinked.

He’d heard that word before. Only once but he remembered it. It was a good word. Majesty. He liked the way it sounded. He’d seen the queen on the telly. Petunia had made him go to his cupboard because the Queen wasn’t his. Freaks didn’t have a queen. Was the goblin talking about the Queen? But the queen was a she. The goblin – Mimsy?- said he. His Majesty.

“what d-“  
He didn’t get any further because two huge arms like tree branches reached right across the bed and scooped him up, and then he was in the air as the goblin unfolded itself from where it must have been kneeling by the bed. 

Mimsy was enormous!! He or she must have had trouble fitting through doors.

The floor was a long way down… 

And then he was pressed against a ginormous squishy chest as the goblin started walking. There was blue and white checked cloth against his face. He managed to lift his head away enough to see that it was a great big tent of a dress. Mimsy was definitely a girl. 

“Don’t know what he’s thinkin” the deep voice muttered. “Taking in a skinny little stray human. A puff o wind could blow you away.” 

Boy watched an archway get farther away behind them over the Goblin’s shoulder. 

“Still. Can’t be helped. He is a wilful one. But, we’ll get ye fattened up in no time. Good goblin food will make you strong.”

Abruptly Boy was no longer crushed against a wide, slightly animal smelling body. No – he was falling. And then falling became drowning, before a hand like a bunch of bananas found his head and dragged him up above the surface of the water. He spluttered and blinked and coughed, trying to right himself.

“Don’t even float right..” Mimsy sighed disappointedly. 

Kicking around with his feet, he finally found the floor and, stood up, wobbling in place. It made him feel a tiny bit less afraid – but the water came all the way up to his chest and it was warm! He’d never been actually IN water before. Vernon always made him wash with cold water from a bucket and he watched like a hawk to be sure Boy didn’t waste any of it. He rubbed his eyes and tried to breathe slowly and not panic. It felt funny around his chest as if everything was pressing in on him and he couldn’t get enough air. He craned his neck back and looked up at the goblin towering over him. She really did remind him of Mrs Kew. She tilted her head a bit, looking at him and then turned away and picked up a sponge that was loaf of bread sized.

“Right – now have a good ol rub and I’ll be back with something hot”

The sponge loaf landed in the water beside him with a sploosh and bobbed straight to the surface.”

In the time he’d spent focused on the large object sailing toward him in the dangerous water, Mimsy had about-faced and lumbered out of the room.

Boy peered around.

He was in a big white stone tub. It was square. There were some bowls on what he thought was a shelf over on the side. There was a cloth hanging on a peg on the wall. It was a big sand coloured stone room. There was a window over on the wall with no glass in it. It had a string across it with a really really large pair of socks pegged to it.

The picture sunk in. This was a kitchen and he was in the sink. A big sink. But then Mimsy was really big too.

He batted at the sponge loaf which had floated closer to him and padded carefully toward the side of the sink. Maybe he could climb out. There was too much water. He didn’t like it. He felt he was lucky Vernon had only given him little bits of water. 

On his tip toes he could see over the edge of the sink. It was as high as the doorframe back home.

He didn’t hear Mimsy coming. For someone so big, even though she waddled a bit, she didn’t make a sound.

“Not even wet your hair! Malagin’s tits – do ye not know how to wash either?!” She groaned and lumbered over to him.

The next five minutes were horrible. He thought he was going to drown again. When she finally dragged him out and wrapped him in a towel the size of a bedsheet, he’d decided that he didn’t want to have a bath ever again.

He was plonked down on an oversized wooden chair in front of a table that came up to his nose. A few seconds later a bowl larger than his head clunked onto the table in front of him. 

He stared at it, trying to imagine how much food must be in it. It smelled delicious, whatever it was! His stomach growled longingly, but he probably wasn’t allowed to eat it. And his arms were wrapped in the towel so he couldn’t move anyway.

He looked across at Mimsy, who was looking a bit impatient now.

“Shall I feed you too, like a little bub?!” she asked, as if she was seriously considering it.

He might! He might be allowed to eat it. “Please let me out” he tried. 

She got up and tugged the towel around him till he could pull his arms out. He reached up, but there was no way he could move the bowl and he’d have to stand on the chair to be able to see in it.

Then the bowl was removed. He thought he might cry and almost reached out for it as it was taken across the room. He wasn’t allowed to eat it after all. Petunia did that sometimes. Put food there and he wasn’t allowed to eat it. Then she’d put it in the bin and he wasn’t allowed to get it out. He wasn’t allowed to cry either. That was un-great-full. He’d worked out that it was another way of saying ‘bad’ - it meant full of not being great.

But then Mimsy tipped the bowl into a cup and brought the cup back. It was only a little bit bigger than a real bowl. He brightened. Maybe he might be allowed to eat it. 

She placed the cup on his lap instead of the table and gave him a big spoon. It was stew maybe. Something brown with lumps. But it smelled better than anything he’d smelled. He put the spoon in with both hands and dug out a bit of it, lifting it up and leaning forward to get a bit in his mouth

And then the spoon flew out of his hands and cracked so hard against the wall that it stuck into it with a thunk.

“Majesty!!” Mimsy gasped. “the child is washed and I’m tryin to feed it. That was what you said, right?”

Boy looked up to find the pretty man in the doorway looking furious. He flinched automatically and shrank back, trying to make himself smaller. He’d done something wrong again. Or maybe the man had talked to Vernon and Petunia and they’d told him. He hated him now. 

As if the man had heard him, he stilled forcibly and seemed to collect himself. But Boy thought he might still be mad. Sometimes when Dudley did something bad, Petunia would look like that.

The man turned to Mimsy, tilting his head thoughtfully as if he’d just remembered something.   
“As I recall I told you to have Twyden wash himself in my bath and give him food from my personal stores. …Yet I do see how that may have sounded like ‘scrub him in the sink with last week’s dishes and feed him blargenbroth’.” 

The man took a slow predatory step forward while Mimsy put both hands over her wide mouth and shook in sudden terror.

Boy thought he might pass out with relief. The man was angry at Mimsy, not him. Maybe he didn’t hate Boy yet. Now he needed to be really still or the man might still hit him, but if he was quiet and still, maybe only Mimsy would get hit. He probably wouldn’t get food anymore though.

The pretty man turned to him again, and seemed to look a bit sad now. 

“Get out of my sight” he spat at Mimsy. “If I see your face before I have summoned it, it will exchange locations with your buttocks.”

The goblin flew from the room like a circus tent caught in a hurricane.

Boy tried to be as still as possible. Now the man would say mean things to him for a while and watch to see if he looked at him the wrong way.   
He wasn’t sure what the wrong way was, but he kept trying to figure it out so he could never look that way again. Looking the wrong way usually hurt a lot.

The pretty man came closer slowly and then leaned down over Boy. But instead of hitting him or spitting on him, he picked him up carefully in the towel and held him close.

“You are safe” he breathed. 

And then Boy did burst into tears again because the man was so nice. He wrapped his arms around his neck and hung on for grim death.

He didn’t even realise he was outside until the man stroked his hair and told him to look.

When he’d wiped his eyes, he saw that it was beautiful. Weird, but beautiful. They were on a hill with curly branched trees growing in lines. Large orange and yellow and red and purple fruit hung from the branches on different trees. The grass was long like it hadn’t been mowed in months and it was light orange coloured. The sky was a pinkish shade.

The man pointed and Boy saw that below the hill was a big place with lots of walls and corridors curling around in lines. It was quite interesting to look at. Here and there he could see some green trees in the shape of animals, or water moving in fountains, and even a few shapes that might be people. Or goblins, he reminded himself.

“That is my labyrinth” the man said softly. “A foolish thing perhaps, but I am quite fond of it”. He seemed to think of something and looked at boy again as if there was something funny about him. 

“It’s very nice” Boy said, hoping this was the right thing to say about it

The man raised his eyebrows in genuine amusement. “Is it now? I thank you, Twyden. Most would describe it as a sadistic death-trap, but I doubt you’ll understand those words for a few years.” 

Boy blinked, confused and still hungry. He wished he could have some of the fruit hanging so close by.

“I did not intend it to be.” The man sighed. “Though I doubt many would believe it.”   
He turned and walked away from the cusp of the hill and back toward the fruit trees.   
“Shall I tell you a secret, Twyden?”

Boy nodded warily. He understood what secrets were, but you weren’t supposed to tell them. That was how you knew they were secrets.

The man smiled again and reached up with one hand, plucking a large purple fruit from a branch as they passed it, before turning and lowering himself and Boy to sit against the trunk of the tree.

“Everyone assumes that I built the Labyrinth to be a monument to cruelty – or perhaps a defense.” He shifted Boy slightly till he sat on his lap, and then passed him the purple fruit.   
Boy felt electrified with glee. He had no idea what the fruit was, but it smelled sweet and the man was nice and he’d given him the fruit, so it must be ok. He bit into it with gusto, spraying purple juice everywhere and chewing messily with a big grin.  
The man just smiled and shook the juice from his hand with a graceful flick.

“But none of them realise-” he went on softly, Boy only half listening to him. “-that I never built it at all.” He let his head fall back against the tree trunk, looking suddenly sad again.  
“This place is my prison. I wound myself so deep into it that the very fabric of the earth twists to the currents of my mind, repeats this pattern in all around me.”

The man watched Boy absently, while he finished off the last bite of the purple fruit, the towel now covered in bright purple stains. But he had the feeling the man wasn’t really talking to him anymore when he spoke again.

“….And if the labyrinth is cruel, …even sadistic, what then am I?”


	12. Chapter 12

Awareness returned. 

The press of stone beneath him, an aching in his head.

His head…

The Dark Lord took a hurried inventory of physical sensations. Cold. Light against his eyelids. He had eyelids. The scent of copper. Blood?   
No particular sharp pain on his body so possibly not his blood

Oh gods… on his body. The sheer abject JOY of being tangible. He stretched awareness further.   
Fingers – and an opposable thumb! Toes – not opposable! He was probably human.

He stretched his hearing to the point he thought his ears might actually be twitching.

It was perfectly silent.

After minutes of listening, he dared to raise his eyelids a carefully calculated fraction.

Torchlight. An amber glow – so it was reflecting on walls. Likely stone walls if the surface he lay upon was any indication.  
A castle, church or dungeon?

He raised his eyelids further and spied a softly concave arching ceiling. It was covered in what looked like runes.

And yet not runes. 

Peering harder, he was certain that he did not recognise a single one.

Which was…unusual…if such a word could be applied to one’s own mysterious reanimation. He was familiar with most runic languages in existence, and of the very few he did not master, all but one were lost in whole or part. The letters were not cuniform or –

“What a strange mind you have”

The voice, emanating as it did from above and to the left of him, startled him, setting his heart (his heart!!) racing. 

“You awaken, a new physical being, rejuvenated and cleansed of the decay eating at your very soul, and before you can even stir yourself to wonder at your fortune, you are blinded with fascination for the elementary wards upon the room.”  
The male voice sounded amused. It also sounded superior, with shades of condescending.

The Dark Lord wrenched his head upward in the direction of the voice. It was undoubtedly the same being that had held him trapped in a jar. He raised a hand, already thinking the spell he felt such disrespect warranted

Only to be once again transfixed.

His hand.

Oh Salazar – what was this new horror?!

His hand was tiny. A child’s hand.  
No! Yet more unbelievable. It was, he was quite certain, his OWN hand, merely as it had looked in his earliest childhood.

This was not possible. There could be no way to build a vessel of his body in his youth. No particle remained of that flesh. Not a drop of blood or hair was saved. It lay many decades behind him now.

“How…”he gasped.

The man gave a soft chuckle. “The simple answer -and the one that you will have to accept – is that I use a form of magic that is foreign to your own. I could explain the rites that I performed, but they are extremely complex, ordered in a language you will never master, and require capabilities you have no means of obtaining. Thus, it would be a waste of time, and time is a valuable resource for you. So you will agree it is unimportant how you came to be clothed once more in flesh – what matters is why I have taken the trouble to perform this service for you.”

The dark lord scowled. That was no explanation at all. A magic foreign to… What was this creature then? He had thought it a wizard when he glimpsed it from within the jar. Perhaps it was another magical species. He needed to see it.   
As he was struggling to persuade his far too tiny body to cooperate and let him sit up, so that he could turn, the implications of the rest of what the male voice had said occurred to him. 

As he had suspected, the creature (if indeed a creature was what it was) apparently wanted something of him.   
On the one hand – yes. He grudgingly appreciated being reembodied. Reluctantly he had to admit that he had been in an inhospitable position, weak and far from any servants who might be able to recognise him and assist him.   
On the other hand – who was this being to have the gall to demand a service of Lord Voldemort?!! 

Another soft snort behind him. And now he did finally manage to push himself upright and turn to look. 

A figure stood, slender and tall – unusually tall in fact - in the shadows of the chamber. By the voice it was male, although the shadow he could see was not overly masculine in any aspect. Its face was wreathed in darkness. He could make out nothing at all of it. From the silhouette, it appeared to be wearing robes of a sort, though they fell only to mid-thigh. 

“step into the light”

The figure stepped forward, but the shadows followed it.   
“At present you do not need to know my face. Know only that the ‘service’ I would have of you will also bestow you with power beyond your most heated imagining. As I understand it, power has always been highly desirable to you.”

Lord Voldemort could see nothing of the creature’s face, and yet he knew it was smirking.  
“what is the nature of this power?”

The being seemed to pause in thought.   
“You fear death. What if I were to offer you true immortality, without the need for mutilation of your soul and magic? More than mere longevity – I could grant you indefinite invulnerability to the decays of time. 

Having the one thing he had most urgently pursued for the past decades abruptly dangled before him, the Dark Lord was infuriated to realise he actually salivated at the offer. Swallowing discreetly, he scoffed at the other sceptically. “And what if you could offer me the moon on a string?! Prove yourself. If you are able to grant such power, you must surely already be in possession of it. And moreover – I would know why you would be willing to share such a power, if indeed you did possess it?! What would such power cost me?”

The being tilted its head as if in thought and then turned, pacing away back into the deeper shadows. When it returned, it held a rectangular black shape in its hand. Carelessly it tossed it toward him, and the object landed on the stone byre with a slap, skidding a few inches toward him. 

It was a book. A very familiar book in fact. He reached for it at once, forgetting any wariness for the moment. When he held it and turned it over, his heart sank to see the gold embossed writing proclaiming the book the possession of Tom Marvolo Riddle.

But this book could not be here! He had entrusted it to one of his most powerful servants. Lucius would never have willingly relinquished it. He was possessed of the resources to hold the book even more securely than Gringotts, and would have died before he allowed it to be taken.

He had been loyal! The Dark Lord had verified it himself before he had entrusted…

If this creature had his diary, what then of the other containers of the pieces of his soul?!

His eyes slid slowly back up to the figure.

There was something indefinably smug in its posture.   
“I have them all. Or, if you prefer to view it that way, you have them all. It was a false and foolish way of seeking immortality. Surely you must have realised that at some point during the progressive disintegration of your mind.”

The horror unfolded fully in his mind and he felt himself slide inexorably toward sheer terror. 

He was mortal! He could DIE!! This being had only to toss a spell in his direction, toss a knife or a vial of poison… had only to reach out and throttle him, and he would be no more. He would die. He would die. He would die. He would DIE.   
Wide eyed, his hand grasped spasmodically for a wand that was not there. He felt as if his stomach has been abruptly filled with ice and his teeth chattered in the shock of it. Frantically he jolted into action, sliding from the high stone byre and landing painfully on the stone flagstones below, before half crawling, half skittering away in the direction he hoped held a door. 

Away! He needed to get OUT of this death hole and away to safety. He needed a wand.. yes.. first a wand. And then a wizard or muggle to kill. And something to use. There was no time to be picky. Any object would do. He needed to ensure he was safe! He could not allow himself to DIE!!

He registered in his peripheral vision the shadowed being’s seeming surprise and concern at his quite reasonable reaction to impending death, and it started to move toward him, but he had reached the wall and stumbled clumsily along it looking for a door. There must be one here somewhere. Surely. 

And then he froze. 

A spell. He hadn’t felt it strike him, or seen it flash across the dim room, but his body refused to obey him. Only his eyes, wide in near maddened panic, stared unblinking at the wall ahead where, dimly, he could see the edge of what was clearly a door.

There were soft footfalls approaching him and he struggled to find his magic to throw off this spell and escape, but there was nothing…nothing…when he reached for it. Then arms were wrapping gently around him and lifting him up and he was turned and held, his body limp as the child he resembled. His staring eyes found a shadowed form above and he thought he might go mad with the need to kill it and escape. 

“You are so very damaged.” It sighed wearily. “Perhaps I shall send you to the vampires. I suspect if I do not grant you some sense of security in the meantime, you will only go and ruin yourself anew to attain it.”

Voldemort felt himself shrieking internally. What was this insane creature talking about?!! He couldn’t send him to any vampires! Vampires ATE children! They delighted in it. Children were a delicacy for them. And they had a particular loathing for Voldemort himself. They would kill him on sight! He had approached them several times seeking the longevity of their blood and the last time had been quite sufficient to ensure he never attempted to contact them again. Sending him to vampires would be a particularly cruel means of KILLING him! He struggled frantically to communicate just that but his body refused to respond. Like a puppet with the strings cut, he hung in the creature’s arms as it walked slowly through darkened corridors to an even darker room, where he was deposited on a bed gently. 

“Pay close attention” it told him calmly and quietly, seeming to stare down at where he lay helpless. “I will be placing you with a clan of vampires. I know you are very frightened at this idea, but you WILL seek to learn all you are able from them and WILL remain there until I return to collect you. You will not attempt to leave the clan and you will not seek to cleave your soul again. This is necessary for your future attainment of the power I have promised you. If I do not find you there waiting when I return for you…. I can promise you that I will end you utterly. There is nothing you might do to shield yourself from me, and no spell, soul container or other preparation you could construct to preserve your life should I choose to end it.”

This was not even remotely encouraging to Lord Voldemort. Apparently, not only was he to be fed to vampires, but should he by chance escape them, he would be hunted mercilessly by a being that was in possession of an alien form of magic against which he may have no defences. He felt nearly unhinged with horror and fury. 

The being tilted its head again, looking down at him through the shadows it wore.

“I will confess to being quite fascinated with you, little self-created Lord. For a mortal, your tenacity and inventiveness is intriguing, even if you are rather histrionic. I will look forward to seeing how you have changed and grown in this new life, when next we meet.”  
It seemed to hesitate for a moment and then added, quite gently “Do not imagine that I wish your death – it is the furthest from my desires. I know you are full of fear, but you must trust that I would not put you in a place that I knew you could not survive. I want very much for you to be the bearer of the fathomless power I would offer you. It is why I have taken so much trouble to locate and heal you.”

The shadowy form leaned down over him then, reaching out with a slender hand. The Dark Lord hissed and spat and recoiled from him in his mind, even as his small body remained motionless on the bed.   
The hand brushed lightly over his forehead and down to cover his eyes.

“Do not concern yourself. I am merely ensuring you remember my words when you wake” came a soft murmur from above.

And then the darkness took him again and he knew no more.


End file.
